


Blackeye Week 2016 - That Shakespeare Reference, Though

by 3amepiphany



Series: Blackeye Week 2016 [5]
Category: Wander Over Yonder
Genre: F/M, High School AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3amepiphany/pseuds/3amepiphany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects plays*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackeye Week 2016 - That Shakespeare Reference, Though

**Author's Note:**

> http://omegalovaniac.tumblr.com/post/145690986929/sorry-but-black-eye-high-school-au-where-their

“Miz-Zbornak,” said her short-stop, all one word as all the students were accustomed to saying it. But that was as far as the young girl got. Sylvia interrupted her gently by tossing a softball at her. She managed to catch it.

“If anybody asks me about it the whole team is going to spend the entire practice running laps around the track.”

The girls all looked at one another, and then her first-baser, appropriately, smiled and asked, “Did Mr. Peepers ask you out at the dance?”

Sylvia clapped her hands together. “Okay, hit the asphalt.”

“It’s rubber, Miz-Zbornak,” someone shouted.

“Okay, but you guys danced,” someone else interjected.

“That doesn’t mean we’re dating. Laps, come on ladies, let’s go. I wasn’t kidding.”

“You can’t make us do more than the whole practice, aren’t ya gonna at least answer the questions?” asked the tiny pitcher, shaking off her glove and making sure her shoelaces were tied. “Also we didn’t ask if you were dating we just asked if he asked you out on a date.”

“Are you gonna date Mr. Peepers, Miz-Zbornak?” asked the left outfielder.

She started making annoyed noises at them and herding them towards the track field gate instead of the ball field, until they all took off as one at a loping gait, giggling and laughing, and yelling, “He’s super cute,” “You really should,” “Miz Ripov would agree,” and other things that she didn’t really want to have to answer to at the next PTA meeting. Emily looked at her, and then looked at the gear and equipment they’d just unloaded, and sighed, running a hand through her fluffy hair. “What the vrell did _I_ miss Friday night?”

Sylvia looked at her assistant coach and said, “The eyeball finally found his nerve.”

This was not how she wanted to spend the Sunday practice before their next away game.

Monday morning rolled around soon enough. Peepers popped his lunch in the fridge and pulled his coffee creamer out, turning around to find Al sitting in the chair next to where he’d put his jacket and bag, twiddling his thumbs and somehow twirling his moustache in the same movement. Peepers looked at him crossly and spat, “Smatter with your gossips, go!”

“I keep asking you to help me with the Speech team and you keep refusing. Wander keeps asking you to help with theatre and you deny and deny.”

“Screwball, listen, whatever you’d heard–”

“I’ll be hearing again come first bell,” said the literary teacher, “so to prime myself for watching the ultimate game of telephone this school has ever seen, I need to know the true answer now. From you. Or Syl, but I get the feeling you’ll break a little sooner than she will.” When that got no response from Peepers, he said, “Okay, okay. But you have to give me credit. I’d rather hear it striaght from either of you two than anyone else. And to be frank, you’re gonna want to make hay while Jeff’s smile still shines over the school because I can guarantee you Dom’s not going to have it.”

Peepers still said nothing, grabbing his jacket, his bag, and his mug, and heading down the hall and stairwell to his classroom on the bottom floor of the building. To his utter surprise, more than half of his students were already waiting for him in the hallway, thirty minutes before class was supposed to start.

“No,” he said, handing his mug to one kid and searching for his keys in his pocket quickly. She handed him back his mug once he’d unlocked the door and they all filed in, crowding around his desk expectantly as he settled in. A few more students hurried in, and then the rest. They all looked at him, partly smiles and partly smirks and partly bated breath, waiting to ask. “No, no,” he said again.

“Mr. Peepers,” a few students towards the back of the crowd tittered. And then it fell apart.

“Like, but, everyone saw you dancing,” said someone.

“It was just the one song, they’re not gonna get together over just one song, and definitely not Aerosmith,” said someone else.

“You should have said something, I’d have asked Mr. Ryder to play a really good one for you,” said their friend.

Everyone was talking and giggling and it was suddenly very loud in the room. “Okay, okay, okay, enough, kids, enough,” Peepers said, holding his hands out and eliciting silence from everyone. “Why in the world are you all here so early to get so far into my business?”

The young, brilliantly scaled and ruffed boy who sat in the front row and had a really great grasp on the golden ratio and always impressed him with this said, “We want to help you get her. Miz-Zbornak.” Several of the students nodded emphatically.

“I… uh. I. …’Get her’? What does that mean?”

“Mr. Peepers, no offense, but, you’re kind of a nerd,” the boy said.

“You’re a nerd, she’s a jock. We know all about this hierarchy stuff,” said the girl who always turned in her written work having used glitter gel pens. “It won’t work otherwise, trust us.”

He looked at his planner and saw that they really only were scheduled to study the theme of detachment via the use of color and pose in Manet’s “ _In the Conservatory_ ” and other western art pieces this week.

Fitting, really.


End file.
